Tag Archives: Cash Peters

More about Cash’s life-changing health and healing book

believing book coverAre you sick and don’t know why?

Do you have a disease, and are frightened by what comes next? Or maybe regular doctors didn’t help you at all, or even made things worse.

If so, this book could change your view of life, the way it’s changed so many others.

A Little Book About Believing is a real-life adventure about the power of the mind and spirit to heal. A pioneering story filled with insightful discoveries and valuable life lessons that the whole world needs to hear.

It follows Spirituality & Health writer Cash Peters to a spiritual retreat in Brazil with a group of cancer and M.S. patients who are searching for healing outside the conventional medical system.

For everyone who reads it, it’s uplifting and incredibly inspirational stuff. But if you have cancer or any other treatable disease, or someone you know is currently addressing a serious health issue, then this book is a must-read. It could radically change your, or their, perspective on what it takes to get well. The second half features a section on the Seven Pillars of Self-Healing, exploring ways that even the most advanced sickness might be reversed. It’s incredibly revealing. I know cancer patients who read this part over and over and over again, so it comes highly recommended.

Now, you might be saying, “But it looks like a religious book, and I’m not into religion.” It’s not, though. Let me put that in bold:

This is not about religion

Simply put, you can’t possibly look at the world or yourself the same way after reading it.

Doctors can work wonders, but in the end it boils down to this: you are significantly more instrumental in your own healing than you may think.

In short, this is one man’s personal exploration of the subject of health and healing. The discoveries he makes and some of the conclusions he draws could someday help save your life.

It has a foreword by a leading Harvard doctor and an afterword by one of L.A.’s top cancer specialists.

But I’d say everyone needs to know this information. On top of which it’s a really engrossing story. However – and this is important – it must be approached with an open mind and heart, the way Cash approached the subject in the beginning. Some hardened skeptics have read it and learned from it, but many people have blinkers on when it comes to matters of spirituality in any form, and can’t get over their own deeply-ingrained prejudices.

You can listen to a June 2013 radio broadcast, in which Cash talks about his John of God experience HERE.

It is available everywhere on Kindle and the iPad, and paperback copies can be ordered on Amazon.com and will be mailed from America. The paperbacks can be signed if requested.

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July 31, 2012 · 6:40 pm

The 30-Day De-Wormer: not for the squeamish

Taming the Beast Within Final Cover

Before we start, a quick note: the new book about cleansing  Candida and worms from the body is available now. It’s called Taming the Beast Within, and it’s about time someone wrote a book like this. Not only will it inform you about this stuff and let you know what to do about it, but it looks deeper into the triggers for yeast and parasite infections, as well as examining why some people are prone to parasites and Candida and others aren’t. You’ll find it a fascinating read. There are even photos.

It’s already riding high on Amazon. You’ll find it HERE.

And in case you’re wondering what kind of parasite I’m talking about, try this little monster for size.

Rope worm

A stage 3 rope worm. This came out during the Candida cleanse featured in the book. I mean, look at that thing – it has tentacles!! And that was just the beginning.

Seriously, read Taming the Beast Within. We’re not kidding around here. It could save your life.

ThursdayMorningMemo1400x1400

LISTEN NOW to Cash talking about Candida and what he believes is the REAL cause behind all the misery, and also behind cancer, M.S., and diabetes, on his podcast The Thursday Morning Memo. Available for download on iTunes.

Now, on with the blog.

———-

I can’t honestly tell you why I’m doing this. Not why I’m deworming myself, but why I’m writing a daily blog post about it. In what universe could anyone other than me conceivably want to know about my parasite cleanse?

Then again, maybe you have parasites too. A-ha! Indeed, it’s very likely you do.

I read somewhere that 90% of us have unwelcome creatures of some sort living within us, invaders that lodge in various parts of the body and not only consume nutrients from our food to stay alive, but lay eggs and breed, causing a variety of mysterious ailments, such as rashes, headaches, allergies, boils, etc etc.

How can we contract them? Well, I wouldn’t try too hard, but if it happens, then it might be from pets; from eating sushi, meat, and raw vegetables; or from traveling; or simply from everyday human contact. Parasites can give rise to unaccountable health issues that doctors don’t know how to treat.

So, in my capacity as a curious layman and ceaseless guinea-pig, I’ve decided, for the next thirty days, to flush away the wee rascals from wherever they’re hiding.

After all, look at my life so far. I’ve traveled extensively, eating countless weird foods along the way in the most unsanitary conditions, in places such as Cambodia, Kenya, Russia, Brazil, Vanuatu, etc. I’ve also been a raw food guy for years, and even regularly kissed and cuddled my cats. I’m the perfect candidate for parasites.

Last year, I was doing a liver flush – my fourth or fifth – and a five-inch white worm dropped into the toilet. I almost freaked out. It was the weirdest thing! It’s this that alerted me to the possibility that I may have other unwanted guests in my system, an idea confirmed by an odd rash on my neck that never goes away, by a constant ringing in my ears, and varying degrees of deafness (which can also be a by-product of candida, I’m told), plus I have a stack of food sensibilities that are just plain ridiculous. I get pimples if I so much as look at milk, pig products, sugar, and oil, while nuts and wheat actually make my skin flake off like dandruff. It’s crazy.

Nobody could have been more diligent in pursuing a remedy. I’ve consulted dermatologists, regular doctors, Eastern healers, colonic irrigation experts, aromatherapists, reiki practitioners, and countless others. Everyone had theories, but none was ever able to pinpoint the cause of the problem. Then I read a really great blog about the subject which I recommend (the picture below comes from there) about successfully treating parasites and I was inspired to give it a go.

In some ways this is my list-ditch effort to get to the source of the problem. It’s almost as if it can only be parasites. What else is there left to try? Curious to see if my suspicions were right, I heard from a friend about this treatment called Humaworm, and sent off for a 30-day supply. The directions say to take two tablets twice a day 30 minutes before meals, so that the parasites eat the contents of the tablets, and not the food. Then they begin to die.

Humaworm isn’t the only method out there for dealing with this problem. A friend drew my attention to a post on Curezone about cleaning out parasite species called flukes from the blood, liver, GI tract, pancreas, & lungs. I can’t vouch for this, but it might be worth reading. Liver fluke drug treatment. You follow it at your peril.

Me, I’m sticking with Humaworm for now. Once again, I will submit myself as a human crash-test dummy.

I’ve been doing this – detoxing and reforming my diet and approach to life since my trip to the health and healing center in Brazil. You’ve probably already read my book about this. If not, obviously I recommend it. It will open your eyes in so many ways, as it did me. Life will never be the same again. It’s funny to me that many people see the hands on the front of the Believing book and assume it must be a religious work. Trust me, it’s not. It has a foreword by a Harvard doctor and explores the world of health and healing from a self-empowerment point of view, where we become our own saviors and bring our bodies back into balance.

That’s why I’m de-worming. I’m not an expert, remember, just a regular guy who’d like to shed a few parasites, if he has them. With that end in mind – and there’s really only one end they’re going to come out of – my 30-day experience begins here.

The 30-day De-Worming Program

Day 1: Not expecting much. The two tablets smelled very strong, and shortly after swallowing them I let out a belch that I could taste for at least fifteen minutes afterwards. Had three extensive bowel movements during the day, including an urgent one in the middle of the night. Otherwise, nothing to report.

Day 2: Noticeably lethargic today. Listless too. Could still be the jetlag from my vacation, or the beginnings of parasite die-off. According to the Humaworm site: “Die-off can take many forms: headaches, body aches, rashes, fatigue, mood swings, body odor, and gas and bloating to name a few. Drinking at least two quarts or more of water daily and having regular bowel movements will help get the parasites and toxins out of the body faster thereby eliminating many common die-off symptoms.”

The rash on my neck is redder, and I woke up with a pain in my neck too, which is interesting. Plus, I had shifting aches in my abdomen, sometimes acute, that reached up to my liver. Additionally, my stomach feels bloated. I’m not psychic, but I do foresee another bowel movement in my immediate future.

Day 3:  No worms, but woke with a headache that dissipated very quickly. More pains in stomach too, and a general wooziness. My left ear is really whistling. That’s not a good sign usually. Though today, maybe it is. All part of the die-off, I assume. Have to go to the cinema this afternoon to watch a movie for the BBC. Hope I can last 90 minutes without an explosive disaster ‘downstairs’. I notice in the list of ingredients that there’s a laxative, senna. Oh great. That explains it.

Day 4: No worms, but still getting shifting aches all over my body. This morning my fingers hurt for some reason. Taking Humaworm leads to several hefty bowel movements a day, which has got to be a good thing. I think I’m maybe expecting too much too soon. The one interesting side-effect – if indeed it comes from taking the tablets – is that they seem to make me extremely horny. I won’t go into details, but it’s very, very noticeable. Strange.

Day 5: Things with tails. That’s what I saw yesterday.

To help the process along, I did a coffee enema, which is more fun than it sounds. And in the second flushing there were a number of small stringy things in the toilet afterwards. Now, I thought, “They’re just bits of undigested lettuce or something”, and that may be so, but they looked suspiciously like worm casings to me.

All sorts of weird pains throughout my body that come and go. And I just collapse with tiredness around 9pm and sleep til 6.30. Odd zits here and there too. Part of the die-off or part of the original problem? As yet, I have no bloomin’ idea.

Day 6: Nothing today, except maybe disappointment. Feeling a lot better. It even looks like the rash on my neck is slowly starting to clear up. However, that comes and goes anyway, so I’ll have to wait a while to give a definitive verdict. Bit disconcerted by the fact that my fingers are aching still. Not sure why that is. But otherwise, still waiting for a big break-through.

Day 7: My little worm friends are back. But they’re different this time. Three semi-transparent coils that at first I thought were hairs in the toilet bowl, but which sat lazily under the surface of the water as if in shock at being dropped suddenly and without warning from a warm, closed environment into a cold, hostile environment.

In blogs about de-worming, the parasites that are shown as most common tend to look like a bear’s footprint or long and  brown. I’ve seen nothing like that. These were slender and quite hard to see, and very different to anything that’s dropped out of my system before.

Last night, we went to dinner at a friend’s house. I tried to talk about my deworming program. It’s remarkable how nobody wants to discuss this topic, particularly while eating.

Today I woke up with an achey stomach – food poisoning type achey (which is possible) – and a yearning to poo. A yearning I am about to satisfy. I ache in other ways too. Yesterday there were times when I felt like my body had been stored in a tight box for three days and just emerged, stiffly and painfully. Today….it’s not so bad, but my intestines are gurgling fitfully, so that’s a sign of something. Thank you, Humaworm, for contributing to life’s eternal conundrum in this way.

Day 8:  The rash on my neck has almost gone!!! That’s the big news. A-ha! Thank  you again, Humaworm.

Otherwise, theme of the day: weirdness. My esophagus overnight was so swollen that I could hardly swallow. It was like I had a huge blockage halfway down. It’s better today, but I sound like I have a major cold coming on. Very husky. Which doesn’t bode well for the broadcast tomorrow.

The website Livestrong.com lists common cold symptoms as among the results of the die-off. “Since increasing the flow of mucus is one way the body tries to rid itself of contaminants,” it says, “you may experience respiratory symptoms like those of the common cold–sneezing, coughing and a stuffy or runny nose. These are the body’s attempts to get rid of the dying parasites and their toxins, which it may perceive as invaders.”

Well bingo to that. So I guess the little blighters are pouring out of every orifice all the time.

BTW, no worms evident in the toilet this morning. I get very disappointed now when that happens. But maybe they’re mixed in with the general dump rather than floating freely. I know that some of the stools had strange little tails hanging off them. And, dead-center, was a white blob about a quarter-inch across which just lay there and could have been anything. Normally, however, I never get stuff like this, so something’s working.

Beyond that, it’s a mysterious process. I know some cleansing people like to take out their poo and dissect it, looking for worms. I am not one of those people. I have 22 days left on the Humaworm cleanse – I’ll trust it’s doing its work.

Jeez, I hope this sore throat disappears by tomorrow. Out, damn worms, out!

Day 9:  Cold symptoms continue to linger, but the worst appears to be over. My nose won’t stop running, but I feel fine otherwise. Once I’d accepted that it was my body detoxing, meaning it was a good thing, it became easier to bear somehow. I’m going to sound ropey on the radio tonight, but that can’t be helped. The show must go on.

Bit of a zit issue today, I notice – on my face and with little bumps like flea-bites on my fingers. Also my ears really itch.

And when I did my first poo of the day, I noticed more of those strange little tails, like ant-legs, sticking out of my stools. I don’t want to give you nightmares, people, but my turds have antennae! This whole regimen piles mystery upon conundrum. Was I really that infested with parasites? It’s hard to believe.

I wish my nose would quit running. This is getting annoying. I’ve run out of handkerchiefs and now I’m using kitchen towels.

Hope to be well for Saturday. Going to do yoga in Malibu. The woman whose home we’re doing it in tells me she’s been getting worms out for a couple of years, and that they’re 12-15″ in length, white and very thin. She’s fished them out of the toilet and taken them to show her doctor but he has no clue why she keeps getting them.

You have to admit, this is a fascinating subject. Gross, but fascinating.

Day 10: Felt rough first thing, but am slowly improving as the day revs up. Cold symptoms persist. My nose is running like a faucet still. There isn’t a clean handkerchief anywhere in the house. Clearly, my entire body was toxic with parasites, though how this can be I have no idea, given than I have been cleansing pretty consistently for five years. Am entering a depressed, ‘nothing’s working and I’ve wasted my money – again‘ phase. Maybe I didn’t have parasites at all, just regular stuff that everyone else has and I simply caught a cold. My powers of self-delusion are well-documented in the health field.

Nose stopped running after breakfast and didn’t run for the rest of the day. Like the faucet was suddenly turned off.

I have multiple zits on my face, but in one small area. They keep on coming. Unpleasant to look at.

Have decided to do coffee enemas every three days to help the process along. If I don’t get some serious worm action soon, I’m going to write to Humaworm and tell them. Oh, and by the way, the name’s appropriate. You really need a sense of huma to do this, otherwise you’d throw yourself off a bridge.

Day 11:  Big thing happened today.

Woke up feeling really, really rough. Sluggish, with a head full of sawdust, and a terrible ache behind my eyes. Found it hard to get out of bed. Actually, the cat was sitting on me too, so doubly-hard. But this is going to be a slow start. I don’t know if I can face another 19 days of this. It’s getting in the way.

Hope to complete my new mystery novel by tomorrow.  Yesterday, every word had to be dragged forcibly out of my head and onto the page. I either couldn’t settle or I couldn’t focus or I wanted to eat, or something. Always something.

However, I did my yoga practice first thing, and while I was mid-asana I had a sneezing fit. Immediately, the headache and the sluggishness went. Vanished. Now I’m fine. Oh, and the zits I kept getting on my left cheek – gone.

It’s typical to go to the toilet three times a day during a cleanse. I think Humaworm contains psyllium, which makes you, not runny exactly, but certainly prolific. Anyway, I noticed a couple of translucent threads in my bowel movement last night. I always think it’s just hairs in the bowl, but it didn’t really look like it. Was very excited that it might be more worms. So I leaped off the toilet, turned around to take a good close look – and, well, I had a little accident. Now I have to add ‘cleaning a rug’ to my list of chores today.

Day 12: Another rough one. Oh my lordy, do I feel awful today! Slept for almost 11 hours. More translucent threads in the toilet bowl, I notice, and also white blobs. These white things are candida, I think.

Decided to double down on the attack. Last year, when I got a five-inch white worm out during a liver flush, I was using a zapper at the same time. This is a little device I imported from South Africa which apparently electrocutes parasites as they sleep and breed, and it seemed to work. So I strapped that onto my arm last night and will wear it for the next few days.

According to the Orgonize Africa site: “All parasites and diseased tissues are positively charged. The zapper introduces negative ions through the skin and into the body’s living tissue, killing the parasites by reversing their polarity and also helping to heal the diseased tissue.”

So there it is. You can feel it pumping electricity through your skin all the time. The more acidic your body is, the more the electrodes tingle. Fascinating actually.

The parasites have had it pretty easy for the past few years, squatting in my system, being fed and watered, swimming each day in a heated pool. Now it’s time to evict them. They’re resisting like crazy, of course, which is why I feel so bad. Tired. Eyes watering. Headaches that come and go, and pains that shift around the body constantly. The cold symptoms vanished as quickly as they came, so that’s good, but I never feel ‘right’ or lively or upbeat, just depressed and drained. I guess August is the perfect month for this. Nothing else is happening – it’s a great time to feel horrible constantly.

18 days to go.

Day 13: Today was a big long day involving the amazing yoga session in Malibu, which was fantastic. I couldn’t afford to have a poo crisis suddenly while I was there, so as a preventative measure I had to skip my morning Humaworm tablets. This will probably have  a knock-on to tomorrow as well. It was worth it, though. Worms, you have a reprieve for now.

Before I left the house, there was a long string of white foamy phlegmy something in the toilet, which may have been mucus, but could have been candida. You’d think I’d get a book, wouldn’t you, and look these creatures up? But I simply flushed it all away without checking. In any case, I’ve not seen that before.

Blew my nose a lot all day. Incredible amount of stuff still pouring out.

My friend who has the 15″ worms that come out regularly (see above) has a vast garden full of organic fruits and vegetables. She took us around, plucking fresh raspberries and strawberries and handing them to me to eat. Fantastic flavor. But she was concerned.

“I don’t understand why I keep getting these long worm things,” she said as we walked. “It’s a mystery.”

But maybe it isn’t. Insects lay their eggs on plants. If you eat stuff straight from the garden, unwashed, those eggs and whatever else are going straight into your intestines, where I guess they hatch, live, feed, and breed. That makes sense to me anyway. And it did to her too. How weird that I would be the one to think of that. It’s so obvious really. Wash your fruit, lady.

Day 14: Feeling fine. All aches gone, feelings of sluggishness gone, and no worms or other suspicious objects in the toilet bowl for once. Things are looking up, finally.

Day 15: Halfway through, and unless it has some uncharted surprises in store for me, it looks like Humaworm has done its stuff. I feel great yet again, with no obvious alien beings wriggling in my stool, so all’s well on that score too.

I do notice that I have to get up to pee between two and four times a night, which suggests that Humaworm is still active, helping flush out smaller parasites, but otherwise…..nothing to report.

Oh, one other thing – for a long time now I’ve had dark crescents lining those little crevices on either side of my nostrils. Well, those have gone too. The skin is no longer dark. Quite fascinating.

Day 16: I was expecting this cleanse to slowly build to a glorious crescendo, but it appears that after a while you simply feel better and the whole rigmarole becomes regular and comfortable. Apart from the copious poos twice a day, there’s really nothing to report. Feel good all around, which, after a horribly shaky two weeks to start with, is a massive relief. So I suppose I should feel happy, not disappointed.

Day 17: The day’s big lesson about Humaworm: if you have a long day ahead and no opportunity to go poo, don’t take de-worming tablets in the morning. How I didn’t burst today I have no idea.  It’s not that anything bad was wanting to come out, but Humaworm, I believe, contains psyllium husks, and they promote colonic wellbeing. And nobody wants to be caught enjoying colonic wellbeing during a meeting.

Other than that, all’s well. Peeing and pooing inordinately, so it’s entirely possible that I’m jettisoning boatloads of parasites I can’t see. It just isn’t dramatic, and I feel great. Which is something, right?

Day 18: Oh lordy, could this be more boring? Apart from the fact that you constantly want to poo, I don’t see any difference between a person on Humaworm and one who’s not on it, that is once you break through the first-two-week barrier. Other people may be so chock full of worms and other parasites that the effects of die-off continue for weeks. Me – I’m just dandy. I’ve done liver flushes and Master Cleanses over several years, so maybe I’m relatively free compared to other folks.

The lasting effect seems to be: clearer skin. I’m not as sensitive to foods any more. That’s a major benefit. I do have one zit, though, that won’t go away. It’s in the dead center of my chin and, no matter what I do, it remains. That’s highly unusual, so I must account for it by saying, “Humaworm.” The tablets are on a covert mission. I don’t know what it is, but the pimple is the result.

Otherwise, as I say, just dandy.

Days 19 and 20: Two-thirds of the way through and feeling great. It’s possible that microscopic stuff is being jettisoned from my body and I don’t even know it, but there’s nothing obvious happening. Some people experience a relapse around this time, as though the body takes a rest to gather its forces then suddenly begins detoxing all over again, but in my case I may have been fairly detoxed to begin with, because I feel as fit as I’ve ever been.

Throughout this what-began-as-an-ordeal-then-got-better, I’ve been doing coffee enemas every three days. Normally, my partner and I, we do these twice a month, but because I wanted to empty my butt completely – it’s a technical term, don’t worry about it – I decided to give it a little help.

A coffee enema is a tremendous stimulant to the liver, increasing its performance in some cases by several hundred percent. You basically fill your small intestine with organic medium roast, following some very simple instructions, and lie on your right side for 12-15 minutes, doing so twice with two separate lots of room temperature coffee. This does wonders for your system. You feel brighter and look perkier afterwards, and the stuff that comes out can be startling.

I just heard that the best coffee for enemas, the one used by the Gerson Institute, is S.A. Wilson’s from Canada. 44% more caffeine! Bloody hell – I’ll be as high as a kite. Will give it a try and report back.

Day 21: Well, it looks like I’m clean. For the time being, nothing disturbing is emerging. But that could mean, as I said earlier, that things are coming out still, but they’re small. Entirely possible. The side-effects have gone, though. My complexion is definitely healthier looking, and if I do get reactions to foods, they seem to vanish at ten times the speed they did before. That’s tremendously empowering.

So 9 days to go. My Humaworm packet is almost empty. I’ll continue to the end – I never give up on things – but short of a major development, I think we’re done.

Day 22: Look the other way. Please, just go. I am not worthy of your attention today. I completely forgot to take my pills.

Well, it’s understandable – nothing dramatic has happened in over a week and after a while you get sick of staring into the toilet hoping for worms and getting nothing.

The pills are supposed to be taken twelve hours apart before meals. Tonight I ate dinner and didn’t give my Humaworm a thought. Just slipped my mind. I wound up taking them after dinner instead, and now I can’t get the taste off my breath. My punishment for taking my eye off the ball for a second.

So today the parasites won. They got a reprieve. Now, let’s move on and pretend this never happened, okay?

Day 23: BIG NEWS!

Just when I’d given up hope. My landing gear was down and I was cruising toward the terminal building, and there they are – parasites. Ta-daa!

For a start, last night I could not sleep. I lay awake for hours, which I never do. I never have insomnia. Plus, I have a strange zit-like boil thing on the side of my neck, which can’t be explained away by logical means. But that’s only the beginning. I went to the loo just now, and was quite shocked.

First, there was another of those translucent floaty things, about two inches long, a worm casing maybe, floating in the water. Haven’t had one of those in two weeks. But the most interesting thing of all was what lay around the water’s edge. Normally, I put almost everything I see in the bowl down to eating a lot of salad stuff, which can show up later in any manner of odd configurations when it drops out. But this was different.

Around the edges of the water, where the water laps up against the sides of the toilet, there were five little ‘things’. Short things. barely 0.75″ long,  lying half in, half out of the water, spaced around the bowl. Think about that: each one was half in, half out of the water, as though trying to escape. I have never seen anything like it. There was none in the the rest of bowl that I could see, only around the edge of the water.

Then, when I was performing a little cleaning ritual afterwards, on my hand I found a 1″ long yellowy-white hard thing. My first thought: it’s wet toilet paper scrunched up. But it didn’t look like toilet paper, it looked organic and dead.

So after 23 days, including a long vacant gap that was very depressing, something has finally shifted. Humaworm obviously keeps on toiling away, even when you’re not thinking about it. Fantastic.

Day 24: Woke up with pains in my left boobie. Those seem to have dissipated now. Keep waking up in the middle of the night with my body aching here and there.

No parasites in poop this morning. Not visibly anyway.

Day 25: Nothing noticeable in the toilet bowl today, apart from large patches of white stuff, which I think was a form of gas maybe, but not sure. I’m about to do another coffee enema, so we shall see.

However, there’s BIG news you should know about. Last night we went out to dinner at a friend’s house, which is always a difficult proposition for me, due to all the stuff I can’t eat. We didn’t know these guys well, and they didn’t know about my lifelong problem. It was just asking for trouble.

I have horrible food sensitivities. My skin reacts badly to cheese, meat, fried anything, cream, sugar…etc etc, so I almost freaked when every one of these was trotted out during the meal. In fact, it was made up 85% of these ingredients. There was nowhere for me to turn.

Normally, after a night like that, the following day I’m scared to look in the mirror. I can expect hives, rashes, even bits of skin flaking off. It’s ghastly. But today, guess what, people? My complexion is perfectly clear. Not a blip, no redness, no bubbling up, no spots. How wondeful.

So in that respect, it looks like my dear, fantastic new friend Humaworm has performed a very powerful service.

Day 26: Winding down now. Nothing to report. All aches and pains gone, nothing worth mentioning in my stools. There is a strange zit on my neck today that wasn’t there yesterday, so that’s a mystery. Otherwise, zlich.

I’m open to new developments, and even yearning for them, because I love doing this stuff personally, but we may be done.

Let’s see what happens tomorrow.

Day 27:  Oh dear. Well, here’s something unusual – my Humaworm tablets have run out!

I took the last two before dinner tonight. How can that be? I even skipped taking them twice during the past month, so theoretically at least I should have enough to last 31 days, not 30. But no, it’s day 27 and they’re all gone.

Hm.

I may write to the people who make them and raise this point. I’ll let you know what they say, because that’s very bizarre, isn’t it?

I’ll also write one last blog entry tomorrow, in case the parasites enjoy a resurgence and do something spectacular, like the firework display at the end of the Olympics. I’ll also offer some final thoughts on the experience, dispensing wisdom freely to anyone who’s interested and thinking of doing something similar in the coming years.

Otherwise, that pretty much sews up the experience. I confess, I’m a little disappointed that it ran out before the 30 days. I didn’t see that one coming. Bummer.

Day 28: I am Huma-less. It felt strange to wake up today and NOT take my tablets. But the packet’s empty, even though there are, technically still three days to go, including today, on my 30-day parasite cleanse.

I shot off an email yesterday to the Humaworm people, laying out the broad strokes of the situation vis a vis my shortage of tablets. They replied first thing this morning with a response that, unless I’m misinterpreting its finer nuances, indicated that they’re as confused about this as I am.

“We are very interested in your blog and discussions on radio,”a lovely woman called Barbara wrote. “I appreciate you letting us know about the shortage of capsules…I will bring this to Stephen’s attention.”

Two questions about that: 1) who is Stephen? and 2) Although I’m sure he’s lovely too and means well, how will bringing my shortage of tablets to his attention resolve anything?

A friend of mine started her Humaworm course three days ago and feels terrible, she says. Good, it’s working. She emailed me a photo of her poo with a white floaty thing in it. I’ve had several of these. They look like shreds of toilet paper, but they’re not.

I, on the other hand, am feeling fine these days. Not too different to before, but fine. A lot of unidentified alien stuff has dropped out and been flushed away these past four weeks. I can only assume I am better off without it. My skin has improved, the rash on my neck has lessened – although it changes daily – but I still have a whistling in my ears which I wish would go away.

The Hunaworm company does a cleanse for Candida too, so that’s my next one. Whistling in the ears is frequently connected to a Candida Albicans overgrowth. However, during a cleanse, you are not allowed to touch sugar, sweet stuff, or anything that turns to sugar in your body. I mean, not at all. That’s tough and a real trial, but worth it if this pesky ringing will stop.

Can’t do anything for three months, though. Must give traumatized digestive system a rest. But, come October, I’ll be gearing up for the next one. I am determined to beat these little bastards, whatever it takes.

I’ll keep you posted.

Watch: Cash’s award-winning short film about the Master Cleanse: Fast and Very Loose.
 
 

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Filed under Candida, healing, Health, Parasites, Self-help, Wellness

BBC. Fifteen amazing years. Done. Thank you.

So there we are. It’s done.

My TV/movie review slot on BBC Radio Five Live is no more.

Part of it is down to me – after 41 years of constant writing and broadcasting for radio and TV since the age of 15, I’m slowly tiring of doing this kind of presentation. The light and fluffy nonsense kind.

That said, light and fluffy has served me well. I’ve done everything I ever dreamed of doing, and way more. Written for The Two Ronnies, featured on a TV game show, hosted my own American TV travel series, which is still being shown and will probably continue running long after I’m dead; lived in, and reported from, a number of countries, been on countless adventures and assignments, interviewed thousands of interesting and not so interesting people, written nine books….and on and on. By anyone’s standards, it’s been astonishing.

But now it’s time to move on to more serious things. Things that matter and which affect people and how they see the world. A new life beckons, I must go.

Me, in the early days of the broadcast

After a decade and a half on the BBC’s Up All Night, and what has been truly the most wonderful fun with Rhod and a consistently great team, I’m done and ready to move on. The past five years were especially tough as I realized I was slowly outgrowing what I was doing. Each broadcast became a strain to do; to get enthusiastic about, to stay focused on, etc. I started saying dumb and irrelevant things just to keep my brain alive, and that’s not the way to engage in any kind of broadcasting. If you’re not loving it, leave, and let someone else take up the reins.

What a gift it’s been, though. I couldn’t have wished for better. I’m so grateful. We did some fab, entertaining stuff for the longest time, often against horrendous technical odds. But I have to face it – I’m finished. Each week my mojo was slipping a little more until I was no longer looking forward to doing the broadcast the way I once had. And the BBC people picked up on that. They felt the magic had gone too.

So how do I know it’s time to go? What were the subtle signs?

Here’s how it went. This was the paper-trail that led me to this conclusion:

  • First, the BBC fired me in 2010. One of the producers went nuts in the studio. She’d had her handbag stolen and was incredibly fragile that night, apparently. For fifteen minutes she yelled at me on the phone non-stop. It was quite bizarre. She even tried to have my pay docked secretly as a punishment. The BBC apologized for her spiteful behavior and paid up later on. Also, they reinstated me the following week. So no harm done.
  • Then, in 2011, a fresh assistant editor arrived on the scene. Part of a new breed. My theory has always been that the BBC orders these guys in bulk from a warehouse. Tags ’em, numbers ’em, implants ’em with a special political correctness chip, programs ’em, boots ’em up, and just lets ’em loose, whether they know what they’re doing or not. Somehow, impossibly, unstoppably, they then rise and rise within the Corporation. It’s a marvel to behold. Anyway, back to the point: we got this new editor. A nice enough person actually. Young. Pretty competent, no doubt. Alas, within months, he’d fired me too, only to relent somewhat and rehire me later. As Rhod told me at the time, with a weary sigh and shake of the head, “He doesn’t know what he wants, he just knows what he doesn’t want, and he doesn’t want you.” Anyway, who cares? No hard feelings. The guy was just carrying out orders, I’m sure.
  • Now, in 2012, yet another new assistant editor has taken over in his place, and…. you can probably guess the rest.

I don’t know about you, but I see a pattern building up. Only this time, even if they offered to rehire me, I’d refuse. I’d have to. Out of sheer self-respect. Someone has to draw a line in the sand. The annual firing ritual was becoming a joke.

Of course, from the BBC’s side, the axing of my Slot was a bureaucratic decision, rather than an artistic one done with the audience in mind. We know this because vociferous protests and petitions from so many faithful listeners were powerless to stop it.

[UPDATE: December 19th 2012: the guy at the top of Radio Five Live has been cantilevered from his position, and into another one. Deary me. It’s beginning to sound a lot like karma.]

The previous assistant editor called one day, very annoyed by the audience uprising and blaming me for taking it seriously. “We have a huge listenership, Cash,” he said. “Four hundred people writing in to support you is not a lot of people.”

Really?  Are you sure?

Have you ever known four hundred people voluntarily do anything in the middle of the night, much less send in petitions and write to the controller of the network? It’s almost unheard of, and I was totally blown away by the reaction. Secretly, I think the BBC was too, but management stuck with the decision anyway. Many listeners are still boycotting Up All Night as a result.

[UPDATE: Almost eighteen months on, I still receive messages and tweets almost every day, saying how much the audience misses the Slot. Crazy, really.]

Essentially I was silenced. The Slot was sacrificed on the altar of political correctness and removed from the air, albeit in a low-key, long-haul way, so that I could no longer offer my true opinion on things that the BBC felt was unsuitable for its audience’s ears. This happens on every network, by the way; they’re not alone. It’s a sign of the corporate times. Fear governs editorial decisions in Britain nowadays, I’ve learned to my cost, and this excessive editorial control is leading to the sad passing of yet another tenet of life we broadcasters used to take for granted – free speech.

Example: for years I would play clips of TV shows during my Slot to illustrate the points I was making. One night I ran a brief snippet from one of the most brilliant sitcoms on American television, 30 Rock. A snippet that aired during primetime here, when kids are watching, so it’s deemed completely inoffensive. In it, Alec Baldwin called someone “a douchebag.”

Well, next day, all bloomin’ heck broke loose within the BBC. Seems a few listeners had complained about the word douchebag. Listeners who were, in fact, douchebags themselves, I’m sure. In my experience, any person who has the time to complain to a broadcasting organization is lonely, bored with their life, jealous, or not getting enough of the right kind of sex. Instead, they fixate on minor stuff, and they channel their unspent energy into making total nuisances of themselves. If they were happy, they wouldn’t bother. What better thing to do, if you’re a miserable loser, than make other people miserable too?

One particular douchebag I came across a while ago had collected transcripts of every conversation Rhod and I had had on the air for ten years. Not because he’s a fan, but, incomprehensibly, because he devotes his life to monitoring the BBC for bias and wants to prove that my TV review slot is politically motivated, so that he can complain about it. Seriously. Can you imagine a more soul-crushing, deadbeat kind of existence than that?

You just want to take someone like him to one side and explain, “Do you know how precious life is? How short it is? How many of those precious days you have left before, pouff, you’re gone? Why not use your life like it means something? Why waste even a second on petty sniping and nitpicking? Live, my friend. Go out there and be constructive with your time instead of complaining. Inspire others. Encourage, build, enhance. Just do something.”

But do you think he’d listen? Not bloody likely.

In the 30 Rock example, rather than just ignoring the complainants, which is the correct way of dealing with them, the BBC office went crazy. The next morning, I received a slew of emails and phone calls from panicking producers and assistants in London telling me that I was banned from playing clips in future – not just clips like that, but all clips – unless they had been screened and okayed by editors in the UK the day before the Slot went out. A ridiculous overreaction. And impossible. I was in L.A., using a borrowed studio – the editing and sending over of material a day prior to the broadcast was simply not feasible. So that was the end of it – I was forced to do a TV review slot featuring no clips at all of the TV shows I was discussing. That’s how bonkers things have become at the BBC.

But I digress.

My own reason for leaving the Slot did not coincide with their reason for axing it. These were two separate things. In the end, however, the result was the same, and it’s a good thing. 15 amazing years. Done.

To dwell on the cancellation scenario is pointless and only makes me sound bitter, which I’m not. Baffled and disappointed on some level, yes, but I feel we should rejoice, not carp, about this change. Delight ourselves with how excellent it was to have that lone voice of comic spontaneity, clear and uncensored, on the radio each week for all that time. An era of vocal highwire-walking may have come and gone, and at some level we mourn its demise, but it sure was great at the time, right?

I’ve said enough. But if you want more, then I’m reposting below a blog entry I wrote last year after news of the second axing broke. This gives the bigger picture and ties everything up nicely.

—————————————

This post was written in October 2011 and published in December.

Making magic: how to do a TV review when you don’t own a TV

What’s fascinating to me is that the slot wasn’t even supposed to be a slot at all. It began as little more than a serendipitous coming together of a lost journalist and a struggling network with time to fill and nothing to fill it with. That was in 1997.

I’d been in Hollywood a matter of weeks and things weren’t going well. Thoroughly depressed, I was facing the serious possibility of having to return home soon if my life didn’t shape up. Then, one day, everything changed. A close friend of mine, who happened to be working on a relatively new BBC radio nocturnal magazine show called Up All Night, catering mainly to truck drivers and milkmen, rang me in some panic and said, “Our U.S. TV critic has vanished, or possibly died. Anyway, he’s not answering his phone. Would you be a poppet and review some television for us for a couple of weeks while we find a replacement? We’ll pay.”

Pay? Great heavens!

Unfortunately, I didn’t own a TV at the time, which would make reviewing shows difficult, I told them, though not impossible. Friends had televisions; I could muscle in on those. So…

“Yes,” I gushed. “I’d love to do it.”

In Hollywood, you always say yes, whatever the question. It’s one of the rules.

For the next month, as producers in London trawled the States for someone, anyone, who knew slightly more about American television than I did – there were roughly 380 million candidates at the time – I filled the gap. And for another month after that as well. And another. After which I guess they gave up trawling, because a year later I was still doing it, even though I still didn’t own a TV. Someone else in the house had one; I wasn’t flying completely blind. But I could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be regarded as a professional TV critic. Additionally, before each broadcast I’d pop down to Ralph’s, our local supermarket, and hover around the checkout reading TV magazines and tabloids, researching something to talk about.

It was all very laissez-faire. Nobody appeared to care that I knew nothing, as long as it was entertaining. The slot was a three-minute filler, that’s all, which is an eye-blink in radio terms, so patches of ignorance could easily be masked by a guy being funny, talking very fast, and giggling more than is right. Plus, it was done on the phone, lessening its integrity still further.

Problem was, I didn’t have a phone either! I shared a party line. This in itself presented countless problems.

Quite often, I would be sitting in my scruffy, mouse-infested apartment to the rear of the otherwise very beautiful Samuel Goldwyn Mansion right in the middle of Hollywood, jabbering live on-air to the BBC, giving my honest opinion about some show I’d not seen, when someone elsewhere in the house would come on the line and start talking over me. Or they’d suddenly dial a number and my voice would be drowned out by peeping noises. Or they’d go, “Hello? Hello? Who’s this?” The slot never went off without a hitch. It was always acutely awkward and nerve-wracking. But at the same time it was real! Real and spontaneous and entertaining and unpredictable – qualities that were valued back then; not stiff, over-prepared, and read word-for-word from a script, the way all other TV reviews were (and are). That’s what made it so refreshing and so un-BBC-like. Structure’s not my strong point, as you know – for instance, look at the way I’m rambling here – so I must applaud the producers of Up All Night for sticking with me, and it, for as long as they did.

Once, I remember, we’d just gone live; I was chatting happily to the presenter in London, when a well-hung naked black man climbed in through my window and ran across the room and out the door. He was being chased by another man, this one clothed and armed with a pitchfork, who also climbed in through the window and ran out the door. It was very dramatic, and, I should add, entirely representative of the madness that went on daily in that mansion. I’m surprised none of us got killed. Anyway, in that moment of crisis, as I expostulated, “Oh my god, there’s a big black man running across my room!”, history was made. I switched from talking about TV – which, let’s face it, I knew nothing about anyway – to discussing who the black guy was and why he was naked, which I knew A LOT about.

And that’s how it got started. The chatting, the cheekiness, the crazy Hollywood reporting about my life. For the first time, it gave people in Britain a chance to experience the real L.A., and what it’s like to live in this weird, mad place, from the inside – something they couldn’t find anywhere else on the radio. In time, it became known as ‘My Lovely Slot.’

Listeners, of course, adore stuff like this. And very soon what began as a brief fling turned into an ongoing affair. Within a couple of years I’d been upgraded from a three-minute filler on the phone to a five-minute filler on the phone, then ten minutes, then fifteen, until eventually I was given an entire half-hour every week to do my comedy thing, despite the usual complaints and protests. There’s always a small portion of your audience that, feeling helpless and unheard, takes their self-loathing out on other people, and usually – because they’re an easy target – media people, by endlessly writing in to whine about something you’ve said. When you’re in broadcasting, you accept that.

However, some of the protests originated within the show itself. That was the shocker.

They came from the creator and presenter of Up All Night, Rhod Sharp, who, according to one of the producers, took a rebellious stand in the beginning against their new  ‘TV critic’  getting any more air-time – “But why?” he groaned. “He’s not a real journalist!” – and even campaigned for the slot to be cut back. One of the producers told me this before I went on-air one night. The reasoning, though, was flawed. Of course I’m not a real journalist. That’s the whole point of the slot. Even so, a more persuasive argument would have been: “But why? He doesn’t own a television.” Now, that might have worked.

But Rhod’s a sweetie-pie. Eventually he mellowed, as we know, and nowadays we’re practically in love.

The spirits speak

With the passing of the years, the half hour became a little more professional, I must say.

I quit giggling as much, for example. Then, in year two, I actually went crazy and bought a TV, so that I could start getting my information first-hand, which was a vast improvement. I invested in a phone, that’s another thing. And later I even managed to wangle a real, and quite fabulous, studio in downtown L.A. to broadcast from. During those early bleak days, this little slot of mine, as silly and insignificant as it seemed, was my life-saver. Without it I could not have made it in L.A. The pay was risibly small, but it was enough. Enough to get me from week to week, if I didn’t eat much and walked everywhere instead of taking the bus.

The whole traveling-to-America thing had been a monstrous gamble anyway. I arrived here on spec with almost no money to my name and unable to earn any because I didn’t have a green card, so I was forced to rely totally on the kindness of strangers. And since strangers in L.A. are not exactly renowned for their kindness, that meant I was in survival mode every single day. Now, though, it’s been fourteen years and I’m no longer in survival mode, am I? I’m living quite the life. Things turned around in the end. I wrote books, had my own TV travel show, and got a regular gig on NPR over here.  So for the last half-decade or so, the slot has been done for pleasure only. Mine, if nobody else’s.

Rhod called me at home in October, the day after the axe fell. “Don’t be downcast,” he said, sounding just like he does on the radio. “There’ll be other opportunities.”

And yes, there probably will. But I don’t think he quite gets where I’m coming from on this. The ending of the BBC slot is not a bad thing. It’s a ‘thing’, that’s all. I tend not to fight change, I embrace it readily, and even a little starry-eyed at times, on the assumption that when one situation falls away, it’s only to make room for something bigger and better. It’s always been that way for me. And in this case that’s definitely going to be what happens.

How do I know? A psychic told me.

(Don’t you dare roll your eyes!!)

Back in September, I had one of my regular readings with a quite brilliant channeler guy in Oregon, and for the first time I heard myself ask, “When will my BBC slot end?” Don’t know why I was prompted to raise the issue, but I did. And he laughed, saying, cryptically, “Well, it won’t be less than a month, but it will be over by the end of the year. Just accept it.”

Oh my lordy! That soon?

He seemed very sure.  “You want me to go without a fight? Seriously?”

“Yup.”

So when the day came and I heard the actual words: “It’s over”, it should have been no surprise. Yet I admit I was caught off-guard. I didn’t yelp or squeal or do anything girly, but I think I may have emitted a gasp.

“It  probably should have happened after ten years, not fourteen years,” I told the assistant editor. Which is true. I remember joking on-air with Rhod only a month before. I said they’d have to take me away in a body bag before I’d ever give up my Slot. But I’d already talked with the psychic by then. I knew I was done for.

[UPDATE: when I chatted with the psychic again in the spring and told him I was doing monthly film reviews now, he sighed heavily and said, “Oh god, you shouldn’t have done that. It will be like a long slow fade to black, and it will end mid-year.” Bang on yet again!]

Winding things up, the BBC way

The young BBC man who called was extraordinarily polite and cordial, and probably nervous, wondering if I’d go bananas when I heard I’d been dropped. After all, he was most likely still studying for his GCSEs when I started this thing. To avert a crisis, he apologized sincerely for putting me out to pasture in this way, congratulating and thanking me as he did so for my long, devoted service, inadvertently making me feel gloriously cherished, brutally discarded, and very, very old, all at the same time.

I could have announced, I suppose, that it was my decision to leave, for the sake of my pride. But why?

Because if we’re heading down that road, why not go the whole way and issue one of those robotic statements that are euphemisms for ‘He’s been fired”, and which bruised artists routinely use to shield their pride?

“Cash is leaving to spend more time with his family.” (Which, since I don’t have a family, would make it an even bigger lie), or: “Cash is leaving to work on other projects.” (Okay. But strictly speaking is retirement another project?) Or even: “We’re taking the show in a new direction. We’re hoping to use someone who won’t cause as many listeners to complain.” (Er….oh…well, that might be nearer the mark, I suppose. Yes, use that.)

Anyway, that’s it – the bulk of it. We’re all squared away. Everyone’s happy. There’s no going back now.

[EDIT POINT: Both guys who authorized my firing – the editor of the show and also the head of the network have since been shunted sideways and replaced. Remarkable.]

Okay, I’ll take any questions.

Yes, you over there in bold, carrying the big Q.

Q. Will you miss doing your slot?       For a while, sure. It was engraved into my calendar all those years, week in week out – how could I not?

Q. Is your ego fragile right now?      It’s been a couple of months since I found out, so no, I’m over it.

Q. Does this make you feel old and over the hill?    Not as much as it used to when Rhod would go on vacation for a couple of weeks and be replaced by what sounded like bubbly children’s TV presenters.

These, I assumed, were considered the BBC’s best hope for the future. One or two were great – Giles Dilnot being one; now THAT guy has a career ahead of him – but the majority were mediocre, I thought. Humorless, awkward, and often floundering in the face of unscripted spontaneity, in ways that would have been inconceivable a few years ago, when you needed to have talent and years of broadcast experience to get on national radio, not merely a degree in media studies and lashings of youthful enthusiasm.

It struck me many times as I was doing the slot that, if this was how far down the bar had been lowered in terms of presenter acceptability, then inevitably the BBC would soon be wielding the axe on its more seasoned professionals. It’d have to, if only as a way to make the newcomers seem less like struggling amateurs.

Q. Will the audience miss you?      Hm, not sure about that. Some, maybe. But I know how I am with people who disappear from my life. I move on very quickly.

Q. Would you stay if the BBC insisted?      They’re not going to insist.

Q. This whole cancellation lark sounds very fishy. Why would the BBC axe something that is incredibly popular with listeners? Is there something you’re not telling us?   Ah, well…

How hate, not love, sometimes prevails

If anyone asks, the only reason I continued doing my slot for as long as I did was because, each time I so much as hinted that I might stop, I’d be deluged the next day with emails, tweets, and Facebook messages begging me to keep going. “You’re the highlight of my week,” some milkman in Cheshire would say, or a matron stuck on overnights in Essex, or a cab driver trekking around rain-soaked Liverpool in the dead of winter. “Your slot brightens my life. Please don’t go.”

Ah, but I must, you see. The other day, I said there more reasons why I’m leaving. The first was by far the most significant: it’s time to go. It just is. And here’s another. Reason #2 was:

The corporation’s new “Delivering Quality First” initiative.

In much the same way that the Bush Administration’s topsy-turvy “No Child Left Behind” policy led to almost every child getting left behind, and now nobody in America under 25 can spell, add up, speak in full sentences, or find their home town on a map, the BBC is delivering quality first at its news and talk flagship Radio Five Live by seemingly eviscerating it; cutting £5 million per annum, I’m told, from a network whose budgets are already pinched like an Irish pie-crust, inevitably forcing editors over the next couple of years to sweep aside anything that isn’t cheap or nailed down.

I regret to say that this includes me. I’m not nailed down; I have to leave. It’s progress.

A compromise idea was tabled: how about I give up my slot but continue to contribute to Up All Night the way I do to any other radio or TV network – casually, informally, and as needed? To me that feels like a horrible demotion. Agreeing to it would mean I was just so desperate to stay on the radio that I’d do anything.

But then fate stepped in anyway. A couple of days later, I received my very first piece of direct hate mail, at which point everything changed.

Haters are very vocal. 10,000 listeners may love what you do, but of course they won’t write to the BBC and say so. I myself adored the sitcom Better Off Ted, and was mortified when ABC axed it last year. Did I write in and tell them that? Nope. I’m too lazy.

Haters and whiners, on the other hand, are not lazy. Also, they seem to have a lot more time on their hands than the rest of us. They’re always writing in. Years ago, before emails and texts, they had to send letters, which were easily misplaced or ignored. Now, though, they have the immediacy of the Internet, and they use it to the fullest extent – especially, it seems, when it comes to my little slot. And so the final reason for my leaving is this:

Reason 3: there have been complaints. 

Uh-oh.

Face it, whatever you say on the radio is going to offend someone. If I suggest that the latest series of Doctor Who is shallow drivel, which it is, dozens of easily-pleased people with no taste will write in, saying I’m wrong and it was the best ever.

For every stand you take, there’s someone out there poised to take the opposite side. And that’s fine. It’s democracy in action. The more the merrier. As long as – and this is the important part – as long as producers, editors, and network controllers don’t yield to pressure and let a tiny minority dictate program policy, or, worse still, let them silence voices they don’t happen to agree with. Because then the tail’s wagging the dog and you’ve strayed into very dangerous territory indeed.

Years ago, when broadcasters received hatemail, it was seen as a good, even important, thing. A strong listener response  meant you’d pushed buttons and stirred up passions to the point where they’d been compelled to get off their indolent arses and physicalize their anger. And what’s art, really, if not an attempt to arouse passions in people?

But you can see the dangers, right? For creativity to flourish, artists need to be protected. They need editors and managers with a backbone, who believe that every kind of voice should be heard, not just the ones that try to please all the listeners all the time. Managers who place self-expression first and their own promotion prospects second. Managers who understand the value of originality and defend it, if only as a way to resist the relentless, slow, downward drag into mediocrity that haters represent. Managers with real balls, in other words. They do exist, both inside the BBC and out, and I’ve worked for a couple in my time, but I need hardly tell you – in a world of shaved budgets and increasingly homogenized blandness, they are rare.

Times are tough. Backbone is scarce. You can’t buy it in packs of six, not like in the old days. To stand your ground and support something of value when you’re under fire and anxious to keep your job – that’s a lot to expect. If the choice is to either fall on their sword in the name of integrity, or to take the easy way out by buckling to the irate demands of a few loony listeners (and maybe a couple of complainers within the BBC too, naming no names), my guess is that most producers and editors will buckle. I probably would too.

One piece of hatemail helped clinch the deal

But none of that is important. For me, there was one specific piece of hatemail that made all the difference. The exact-same day, unbelievably, that the BBC man called, I received my first-ever angry tweet about the slot. Came from a new follower in Essex. It was uncanny how it happened. A bizarre coincidence.

“I’m following you,” he announced, “so I can tell you that you make me cringe every time I hear you on the radio. You’re a buffoon.” This was quickly followed by a second tweet. He’d thought of something else: “Oh, by the way, just how affected can an accent be? Answers on a postcard…”

Nothing to be concerned about, you might think. Just a guy I don’t know venting his feelings about an affected buffoon he doesn’t know, and with every right to say what he said. But that’s not the point. I don’t believe in coincidences. Nothing happens by accident.

This listener wasn’t aware of it, but he’d sent his tweet at a watershed moment. On any other day his intentionally cruel words might not have mattered. But somehow, that one insignificant little nugget of malice felt to me like a sign. A sign of changing tides. Same way the BBC is changing. We’re told it’s about to start delivering quality first. Well, good. About time. And I’m sure savage budget cuts, a reduced talent pool, and overall limited resources will help bring that goal nicely to fruition. However, the very nature of the terminology tells you that there’s no room for me in that scenario.

After fifteen years of the best fun I could possibly have had in broadcasting, I’m feeling cornered. There’s no air in here any more. Broadcasters find themselves hemmed in by watchdogs, whiners, and waves of insidious, way-over-the-top political correctness, the fascist kind imposed by the fanatical minority, that crushes the human spirit and ruins everything for everyone else. It’s like waking up in the night to find your longterm lover trying to suffocate you with a pillow.

So we’re drawing things to a close.

No doubt all those people, like the hater guy in Essex, who loathed the slot – and there are many others, including a couple of the lesser-talented stand-in hosts –  will be rejoicing, popping corks, and organizing singalongs and pageants of their own at this news. And so they should. They won. Their efforts paid off. Let’s not shy away from the truth, nor take even an ounce of their victory away from them. Whatever jubilation they feel today was earned through rugged persistence over many months and years, even if their triumph is, when viewed in a fuller perspective, tiny, since it was only a matter of time before I left anyway. A month, three months, six months down the line – at some point relatively soon the slot would have drawn to a close. It had to. Which brings us full circle, back to the main reason, which is:

Quite simply: I’m done. The affair is over.

To conclude, then, because I really am rambling now…

My friend, the one who started it all off by calling me in a panic in 1997, was quick to reply when I told him what had happened. “Given that it was initially a temporary thing,” he said, “fifteen years is not bad.”

He’s right, it’s not bad. Actually, it’s better than not bad, it’s brilliant! And it extends to a time way before 1997, because I’m not just ending my BBC slot, I’m ending all my media involvement – TV, radio, the works.

I climbed aboard the broadcasting carousel at the age of 15, doing pieces for BBC Radio Manchester. At 16, a short animated film I made was shown on BBC1. Also at 16, I began contributing material to BBC  comedy programs, first for radio, then later – at 17 – for TV, with The Two Ronnies and Talking Telephone Numbers.  And it’s been going on ever since, alternating between radio and TV, both in the UK and more recently in America. That’s some carousel, my friends. It’s been terrific in every conceivable way, I couldn’t have wished for more. But now it’s time to climb off.

The wind-down began last year when I left Marketplace, the U.S. public radio show I’d been contributing to for more than a decade, and quit being a reporter. Already I’m no longer up to date on world happenings, because I don’t watch the news any more. To me, it’s a bunch of contentious white noise – complete strangers telling me in the gravest tones what I should be worried or frightened about. Well, I can do without that, thank you.

Better still, in January, with no slot to research, I plan to get rid of my TV altogether. This prospect makes me very happy indeed. No more surfing endless channels of nothingness looking for topics to discuss. No more setting TiVo for programs I would never record otherwise. No more having to magic an opinion out of thin air about some vacuous fly-by-night celebrity or a mindlessly indulgent and derivative sitcom that’s going to be cancelled in a month’s time anyway.

Above all, I can quit judging things. Things, shows, ideas, ratings.  That’s the best development of all. I was not put on this earth to be a critic of other people’s work, or to poke fun at their efforts, even though it’s what I’ve done for twenty years. My remit has a broader reach than that. There are the handwriting analysis skils I have, for instance, which are mind-blowing. Also, my new mystery novel has just been published: Force of Habit – Sister Madeleine Investigates. That’s waaaaaay more representative of the kind of artist I am, I think. I was born to create, not to tear down.

Which is why, hanging up the phone on the assistant editor on the day of the axing in October 2011, I found I had a peculiar fizzing sensation in my crotch, as if someone had poured champagne into my pants. This only happens on two occasions: a) when someone really has poured champagne into my pants; and  b) when massive life changes are afoot.

And that’s where I’m at as I write this. I’m embarking on a massive life change, switching from being a media guy, which I’ve been since I was a kid, to being a very happy and non-involved civilian. My career has been living proof that you can have anything you want, anything at all, if you’ll just dream big and be persistent. In my teens, I had a bunch of what seemed like impossible dreams, and every last one of them came true. I’ve been living in a bubble ever since, letting my childhood dreams play out. Now, though, I’m done. Today I have a whole raft of new dreams. Grown-up dreams that don’t involve broadcasting, and which will take the rest of my days to fulfill.

For some reason – don’t ask me why – I have a peculiar feeling that my life is just beginning.

So that’s it really. It’s been great. Thanks to Rhod, all the BBC studio managers, producers, and editors I had dealings with, most of whom were fantastic and exemplary pros, and of course the fans – all 15 of you – not only in the UK (13)  but worldwide (2), who tuned in each week, and who sent me such wonderfully supportive messages. To quote Gabriel García Márquez: “No llores porque ya se terminó… sonríe, porque sucedió.”

In English: don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.

Two final things:

1) Late breaking news: here are a couple of blog posts some lovely listeners wrote about the ending of the slot. One from Hugh McCallion and another from Stephen Duncan. Am I touched? Oh, for sure.

2) After so many fans of the slot wrote to him, the controller of Five Live, Adrian Van Klaveren, started sending out a robo-tweet: “Sometimes you have to make changes to keep progs fresh and try out new ideas/voices but we hope Cash will still appear on UAN…”. (It’s Twitter, so he probably ran out of characters, and meant to continue: “…doing something dull and safe that will upset fewer people.”)

Okay, time’s up. Gotta go before this gets maudlin. Or worse, bitter.

Missing you already.

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Cash’s mystery novel, FORCE OF HABIT, rockets up the Amazon chart!!!

Hey, you! Love mysteries? Love thrillers?

FoH Final coverIf so, I’m betting you’ll really enjoy my new mystery novel  Force of Habit: Sister Madeleine Investigates. Amazon has it listed in two different places, for some odd reason. So it’s available in paperback HERE for a mere $8.99. Or as an ebook HERE for only 99 cents.

The book was featured for one day only on an ereader website, which promotes new mysteries, and rocketed right up the Amazon listings as a result. I was so excited. It was even #4 in a separate listing for Women Sleuths.

Book on Kindle

Not long ago, someone wrote, saying it was their ‘favorite mystery-thriller EVER’, and it’s getting stellar reviews.

“This novel grabs from the beginning, with twists and turns which are totally unexpected. Madeleine is certainly not your ordinary nun….a great read!”

“Interesting, original characters, intelligent writing, plot kept me moving and thinking. Refreshing & original. Usually I guess mystery endings, but this one I didn’t guess the end. Great finish.”

“Guaranteed this book is not what you expect… If you really think about this book, it is very smart. If you don’t, it’s funny and exciting.”

“On the cover, Sister Madeleine looks like a disapproving kindergarten teacher. Don’t be fooled. If you really think about this book, it is very smart. If you don’t, it’s funny and exciting.”

I like that last one. So hey, c’mon, why not give it a shot? If you have a Kindle or iPad the book could be yours in seconds. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too.

Only last week, a reader in Florida posted a review on Amazon. I’ve taken the trouble of editing it slightly, but here is the broad gist:

“This is not simply a mystery; it’s a comedy, and an incredibly clever one at that. The author has a way of turning phrases that makes the ordinary brilliant. Of all the books I’ve downloaded over the past year or so, this one stands out as an absolute winner. The other reviewers who mention its humor as slight or secondary have missed the point. The entire story is a farce, savaging Religion, Ideology, Government, Society, and Celebrity in one fell swoop. Its Hollywood characters are among the funniest I’ve encountered. A wonderful book from a genius writer. I’m looking forward to the next installment.”

Genius writer, eh?

Well, next day, the review was taken down. By Amazon, I believe. You can imagine how bummed I was. But it was so gushing, they must have thought I hired someone to say it.

Anyway, here’s the story.

                                ‘BILLIONAIRE SUICIDE MYSTERY’

When news reaches Sister Madeleine that her old friend Howard Barley, a global publishing tycoon, has died in grisly circumstances, she is shocked but also very suspicious. Even more so when she learns that Howard left his entire fortune and business empire to her.

Forced to abandon their familiar convent surroundings, Madeleine and her young assistant Roberta take up residence at Milkwood Hall, the billionaire’s luxurious mansion, and immediately find themselves plunged into terrible danger.     

Burned human remains, trembling floors, strangers roaming the grounds, a freezer filled with corpses, and the return of a sinister organization she was once all too familiar with – the puzzles keep piling up, driving Madeleine to use every ounce of courage and cunning at her disposal to solve them, while also tracking down a ruthless murderer before he can kill again. 
 —
One reviewer, in response to reading an advanced copy, said it was ‘superb’.

Someone else: “Just finished devouring Force of Habit…when does the next book come out?  I am not the world’s biggest mystery reader – very particular about my reading – but this was really addictive. Great writing.”

And another:  “Refreshingly different. A brilliant mix of fast moving action packed mystery/thriller and humour…A brilliantly conceived plot with twists and turns that kept me guessing right up to the end. Highly recommended.”

MysteryNet, the site for lovers of mystery books, called it: “Action- packed to the very end.”  

Michy’s Book Reviews said: “The action and voice kept me reading. If you’re looking for a good and quirky mystery-style story, this is an author and a series that should satisfy.”  

From Wendy Hines of Minding Spot book reviews: “Great characters, a twisted plot, entertaining situations and really good writing, I can’t wait for book two!”

And Tristi Pinkston – yes, THE Tristi Pinkston – said: “Cash Peters has created a gutsy, loveable main character, placed her in breathtaking danger, and brought all his readers along for the ride of a lifetime.”

You’ll feel the same way, I’m sure.

A childhood dream becomes a reality

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to write fiction. Specifically, a mystery-thriller – one of those thumping good ‘mysterious lights at night, noises in the corridor outside, body in the library’  type of books. Detective stories and vintage murder stories were my fascination when I was a kid. I gobbled them up by the dozen, and long believed I was capable of creating one of my own.

With that in mind, I thought, “It’s now or never”, shelved most of my workload for the next eighteen months and wrote Force of Habit. A modern mystery with a retro twist. I did it for me, mind. To prove that I could. To validate the kid inside of me and make him proud. It didn’t even matter if nobody else liked it, as long as I liked it.

But here’s the thing:  to my delight, the reaction from those who’ve read it has been incredibly warm and amazing. Beyond anything I could have hoped for.

“Dazzling,” wrote one.

“Compelling and brilliant. Relentless and frightening.”

“It’s so COOL,” someone else said. “I love it.”

Well, yes, me too. I’m as happy with this as anything I’ve ever done, and hope you love it as well.

Published by Penner Press, it’s lots of fun. A gripping wild ride filled with action, intrigue, humor, satire, and strange, unexpected twists.

My Life as a Nun’s Mentor

I had the idea way back in 1983. I was living in Golders Green, North London at the time, renting a small bedsit.

One day, a new tenant moved in next door to me. A nun. I remember her name: Sister Margaret Sherwood. Wonderful woman. Very toothy, quite oversized and shuffling, and absolutely  clueless about everything. She was on an apostolate, she said, which, as far as I could tell, meant she’d been thrown out of the abbey, a bit like Maria, and left to fend for herself.

Though Sister Margaret was in her 70s at the time, she’d led a cloistered life for decades and knew nothing – and I mean nothing – about the modern world. She had no clue how to use a can opener, for example. She’d never watched TV, made a Panini sandwich – in fact, she couldn’t cook a thing – and she absolutely marveled at the way my electric kettle boiled water all by itself.

“That’s fan-tastic!” she’d shriek. “How does it do that?”

It was quite bizarre. Like having Catweazel come to visit. Or the apes from 2001.

For the next three years we lived together in that house. During that time, I introduced her to the concept of convenience, leading her through the basics step by step, as you would a toddler, or someone who’s just arisen from a hundred-year coma, giving her simple instructions on how to cope with life outside the convent wall, such as how to make mushrooms on toast, how a water heater works, how to vacuum a rug without sucking half of it up into the Hoover, and generally demonstrating what’s what.

It was a life-saver for her, I realize that now, and also an intensely interesting character study for me. “Somewhere in this,” I recall thinking even then, “are the seeds of a really good sitcom, or book, or movie, not sure what – but something.”

Force of Habit title pageAnd that’s where it began. The novel stems from that situation, though with a much darker, sinister edge, and a lot more car chases.

——————————————

Force of Habit: Sister Madeleine Investigates is in paperback and available as an ebook right now as well. Get it HERE for just 99 cents. No strings. Come on, why not let the kid inside of you read the novel that the kid inside of me waited a lifetime to write? You might be pleasantly surprised.

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Cash’s astonishing intuitive gift – helping you tune in to the voice of the REAL you

Sometimes I forget that I have the most incredible gift. In fact, I wrote an article about it in Spirituality & Health magazine some while ago. 

And a reminder arrived this morning in the form of an email. It’s from a woman called Pat, whose handwriting I analyzed a couple of days ago – although I should probably stop using the word ‘analyzed’. That’s not what I do. What seems to happen here is that, once I have the writing, I’m able to tune in to a person’s energy. To the voice of their soul, I believe. It’s akin to psychometry. The handwriting merely offers a convenient access point.

When I do it, though, it’s as if floodgates open. Information about the writer is channelled through me in a mad rush, sometimes for a couple of hours. It’s all I can do to keep up, quite honestly. The whole thing feels like a spiritual download and the result can run to seven pages, or even twelve in one case.

For those who are ready, it can point to the next step in their personal evolution.

We’re not dealing with personality stuff here either. When people talk about ‘handwriting analysis’, they’re usually referring to graphology – the scientific study of writing. Again, that’s not what I do. This goes way deeper than that. It’s about the person’s whole life up to this point, their pain, their insecurities, where their road is taking them, whether they’re in their rightful place at this stage of their life or deviating from their soul’s path. That’s what makes it so fascinating.

So anyway, back to the point. This woman Pat sent me the most wonderful email.

Hi Cash,

I can’t begin to thank you enough for this unbelievably accurate summation of basically my entire life. WOW – my head is about to explode with the information (in a good way). I feel like you hit the mark on everything – it all resonates with me! Your gift is truly amazing!!

You’re the best. Have a wonderful day!!

Pat

It makes people feel so connected and validated, that’s what I love about it.

Some 20-odd years ago, I found I had a quite uncanny ability to see beyond the actual handwriting itself, into the very depths of the person who wrote it, with all that this entails. Their motivations, their strengths, their pain, their abilities, any leftover hurt from childhood, and so on. Since then I’ve appeared on radio and TV with it, written books and articles, and must have channelled thousands of writings.

There’s more information HERE if you’re interested.

Because it’s something I can do quite easily, I tend to forget the kind of impact it can have on a person.

Even as I was writing this piece, I received another email from someone else:

Wow is all I can say at this point.  I have read the analysis several times already and it made me cry, so obviously you got it right…. Thanks for being such a good mirror of what is really going on in my life.  As you know, I don’t let many people in to see the real me so this was a great wake up call.

If we ever meet in person, I would like to say thank you face to face.  I am grateful you had the courage to share your gift with others.

K.

In 1998 I had a book published by Warner Books about what I do. To seal that deal, I had to fly to New York and ‘perform’ my gift for a boardroom of editors and assistants. It was a daunting task and really intense, doing it on the fly like that. But they were so blown away by the accuracy that they made an offer for the book right there on the spot.

A couple of years ago, I was invited by a woman here in Los Angeles to meet with her Swedish family who’d flown to the U.S. for a short vacation. The five of us sat at a table and they each handed me pieces of handwriting. Not just their own, but writing belonging to their parents and grandparents. One by by one I went around the table, telling each person about themselves and their ancestors. And of course they were blown away. Mind you, on that occasion, so was I – because every piece of handwriting was in Swedish, and I don’t speak Swedish at all.

That’s how spooky this thing can get sometimes.

Leading astrologer Kristin Fontana said on her radio show, “I’m blown away by it. It was simply incredible. I don’t recommend anything unless it’s top notch, but…I highly recommend getting one of these done.” (You can hear her going nuts over it by clicking HERE.)

It’s a strange talent – some kind of psychometry, I think, or maybe I’m just unnaturally perceptive – and therefore something that, initially anyway, I could think of no practical use for, beyond being a sort of weird parlor game or fairground sideshow trick that I would do at parties or when specific people asked me to. That, however, changed over the years.  In time, I was forced to take it more seriously, not least because the reactions I got were consistently mind-blowing.

“Wow!!! What a gift you have. I have so much to think about since reading this. Thank you for sharing your gift and for doing it with such beauty and kindness. You are “right on” about everything…”  M.L.

“There was just so much that reflected me. I tried to find something (anything) that I can say  “that is not me” or “that’s inaccurate.” I haven’t found anything”  D.B.

“My ‘report’ felt like a love letter from someone who knows me very well and who cares. I have read it several times and cried. I feel seen. It is truly a gift to me, not something I have often experienced.” D.W. 

And so on. As you can imagine, it’s incredibly heartwarming to receive comments like this, even though it’s for something that I don’t even feel I’m responsible for. I’m a channel for information, that’s all. This isn’t me staring at a piece of writing and thinking to myself, “Hm, now what shall I say about this person?” There’s no judgment involved. All I do is open up, tune in, and, bingo, out it all comes. The more handwriting I analyze and the more feedback I get, the more I sense that it is really helping people move away from the wrong path and onto the right one.

When this is hardest is at corporate events. People sit down in front of me, write something, I start to talk, and, a few minutes later when I look up, they’re crying. This happens a lot. “Finally,” they’re thinking, “somebody understands me.”

“I just wanted to let you know that your analysis was astoundingly accurate and enlightening. Even my family and closest friends would not have been able to articulate the entirety of what you did — especially with such a degree of detail and nuance. I have already found it quite helpful and I’m very grateful for your gift.” K.C.

“This analysis was amazingly spot on.  There is so much there. Reading it felt like I was getting a good, deep look at myself.” C.L.

“Thank you, thank you. I have some new intentions to set, some freedoms to focus on, each moment of the rest of my life to enjoy. You have a beautiful gift. I hope one of these days I run into you in person and I can give you a big hug.” M.M.  

“The first words out of my mouth were, “Oh my God, wow!” You are an amazing man, Cash Peters!! I am astounded at how well you know me…..you pretty much got me pegged.” K.K.

Isn’t that something? It takes my breath away sometimes, the reaction. People find it so life-affirming.

So if you’re interested and want the same done for yourself or a loved one, go to my website and follow the instructions. It’s very simple.

“I want to thank you for opening my mind, my heart, and my whole being. It is extraordinary that you knew the whole me better than I ever knew myself. There is no dollar amount that can measure the value of what you have given me. I am truly grateful.”  K.B.


Well, thanks. I am truly grateful too.

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a little book about believing

I want to introduce you to A Little Book About Believing: The Transformative Healing Power of Faith, Love, and Surrender. It follows the quite astonishing events that took place in Brazil when I  underwent ‘spiritual surgery’ from renowned healer John of God, and it opens the door to a new perspective on what it takes to heal from serious illness. Oprah herself visited the same place in March 2012, and that’s about the biggest spiritual endorsement you can get these days.

Anyway, this book, as unlikely as it seems at first, might just change your life. I don’t say this glibly. The effect it’s having on people’s perceptions of life and how they live theirs is quite astounding, even to me – and I wrote it. And this only increases every day as more and more of you read it and absorb its revolutionary message.

Apparently, the U.S. Army has ordered copies of the book twice, a nurse in one California hospital bulk-ordered some to give to patients, and a famous actor who’s seriously ill right now insisted on taking me to lunch after reading it. Plus, countless copies have been mailed around the world to regular people like you and me who were, as they say, “sick and tired of being sick and tired” and hungry for alternatives to poisonous pharmaceutical drugs, invasive surgery, and harmful radiation. More than any of that, though, they were looking for hope, as well as an assurance that there might possibly, after all, be another way.

“Started reading the book last night at elevenish,” someone wrote on Twitter recently. “Read til 4am, passed out. Finished it today less than an hour ago. I have you and your exquisite little book to thank for changing my life forever, intimately and positively.”

Those words gave me chills, quite honestly. And it’s a common reaction.

Having said all that, this wasn’t an easy book to get through the system. My agent turned it down outright, telling me there was no market for it and she wouldn’t take it on, which was a terrible bummer at the time.

However, rarely down for long, I did the next best thing: I dumped that agent for having no vision and set out to find a new one.

I approached a guy I knew who worked for a big New York agency. He’d loved my previous work, and, sure enough, he loved this too. Adored it actually, and said so. “I couldn’t put it down,” he gushed in an email. Which, to be honest, is what everyone says. “It kept me awake at nights thinking about it.”

So clearly he’d want to represent it, right?

Wrong!  Too dangerous, he said. “If I represent this, I’ll be in trouble. I come from a family of doctors. They’ll never forgive me.”

Unbelievable. But here’s the thing: he didn’t really mean it was dangerous, did he? He meant it was new and different, and he was scared of it. That’s been true of many wonderful books in the past. Everything from Harry Potter to Chicken Soup for the Soul, they’ve all met with resistance at the start. Obstacles are part of the game.

It was then that it struck me.

What I was facing here was not opposition, was it? It was a series of sobering encounters with reality, to help me clarify my intention and galvanize my resolve. That’s all adversity is. It clarifies and galvanizes. Only when you’re faced with obstacles and setbacks do you find out what you’re made of. Did I believe in my wonderful little book enough to keep going with it through thick and thin until it made it to the stores? That was the question.

YES! –  was the answer. Because, although I may lack certain qualities in other areas – God only knows! – I do have one quality which has got me through many a tight scrape in my life, and that’s fortitude. Otherwise called follow-through. Or persistence.

In the words of Sir Winston Churchill, I “…never, never, never, never give up.”

The Pay-Off

And sure enough, my fortitude paid off. The book is now a glorious, wonderful paperback. The kind of paperback I want to stroke and hug and flick through countless times, even though I know every word in it. Because I also know the amount of persistence it took to fend off the naysayers and get it to this point. If I built it, they would come, I was convinced of it.

And you know what? They did come. They came in impressive numbers, gushing praise, proving the naysayers wrong.

“Your book is important, incredibly well written, and totally compelling,” someone else wrote.

And today I found another comment on Facebook: “Wonderful, surprising, challenging, eye-opening, sensitive, touching….I’m running out of words. Just get it and read it. You will discover things about yourself, and about everything else! It’s life changing!!”

On page 18 of a little book about believing, it says the following:

“In this book we are crossing a bridge into the unknown, ready to challenge some of our holiest preconceptions about health and healing. In my view that’s a good thing. The mere fact that we’re discussing this topic at all will bring us to a place of new understanding. A place where hopefully someday we, the ordinary people, may not be such easy prey for serious illness and can instead choose to be its master, or even avoid it altogether.

“It’s an exciting journey, one that requires a flexible mind, a willing heart, and a readiness to release ingrained attitudes.”

Releasing ingrained attitudes is what the book industry needs to do too, by the sound of it. If they can turn their back on my ‘little book that could’, what other gems are they not publishing either? If you too have aspirations to write a book – or do anything else, frankly – and you believe in it enough and feel like the idea came from your very soul, then maybe all you need is to summon the necessary amount of faith and fortitude, keep your head held high, and never, never, never, never give up ’til you push on past the finish line.

a little book about believing: The Transformative Healing Power of Faith, Love, and Surrender (Penner Press).

Read an article on Patheos.com written by Cash about the book and the power of prayer to help heal the body. 

Listen to an interview about the book with Dr. Rita Louise. This is really good. 

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Psst. Over here. There’s a naked man with a book to sell.

Today’s a tentpole day in the world of British literature, or so I like to think.

Despite the fact that the publishing industry is crumbling around our ears, and even though spotting someone reading these days is about as rare as restaurants that still have unicorn burgers on the menu since the ban, I can reassure you of one thing at least: quality books that are worth your time and money are still occasionally being published.

That said, allow me to draw your attention to the following:

Today in the UK, John Blake Publishing Ltd, the noble and esteemed institution behind such instant classics as Ant and Dec: The Story So Far and Chopper 10: A Fool and his Toes are Soon Parted, is releasing the British version of my travel book Naked in Dangerous Places, which they have decided to call Stranded in Dangerous Places. Same book, but with one big difference. Can you spot what it is?

Anyway, it’s about a grueling 15 months I spent living with various tribes and cultures around the world, from Cambodia to Dubai, Russia to Australia, a journey that scared the bejesus out of me, put me in hospital three times, and eventually led to me having an organ removed. Now seriously, who wouldn’t want to read about that? Though in case you’re still on the fence, the cover carries a depiction of me running naked with my underpants around my ankles, making it an instant collectors’ item.

Stranded in Dangerous Places by Cash Peters –  read it, love it, buy a second copy as back-up, in case you soil the first one laughing.

In fact, I’m so convinced you’ll laugh at this book that if you don’t, the publishers will give you your money back. Probably. Just check with them first to make sure that’s the case.

TV Swami – he support this message.

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